


Irrational

by Jaeh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, angst-but-not-really, bro-fic, the brothers have feelings, they both have a heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of him hurt when he found out that Moriarty didn't send anyone to try to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irrational

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Post-Reich fic, Mycroft and Sherlock. Er, written a month or so ago, just got around to posting it. I didn't really like it that much at first, but I figured, eh, what the hell, posting it anyway. 221x3 = word count. I should try 221b ficlets sometime.

A part of him hurt when he found out that Moriarty didn't send anyone to try to kill him.   
It was irrational, he knew, but as a mere mortal, emotions were built in and ingrained, even if he tried to train them out of himself.  
  
It was irrational because he should be pleased that no one actively tried to kill him.  
  
But he wasn't.  
  
He knew why Moriarty targeted those three people, and it hurt that he wasn't one of them. Even a psychopath knew it wasn't enough to be related by blood.  
  
By god, it hurt him, and he tried his best not to think too much about it.  
  
But when Sherlock appeared at his doorstep looking gaunt and pale and worse for wear, it took him a bit to get over his initial shock at seeing his brother alive and well and felt more than a little happy that his brother still chose to run to him when he needed to after all these years.  
  
He should've expected him to be alive, but he chalked it down to sentiment and… feelings.  
  
He thought that his brother really did die - he  buried him, for crying out loud. He was at the funeral, he read through the will. He should've thought closed casket was suspicious, even if it was his brother’s so-called last request. Actually, he should've thought that the last will and testament was suspicious. Sherlock wouldn’t have actually thought his own death through.  
  
But then again, they all did think it was a suicide. He never understood why Sherlock did it, either. He really should have known better.  
  
But when his brother appeared, all he felt was immense relief. And it wasn't how he normally showed affection (he preferred to subtly watch from afar, to step in when needed and to send little blessings when least expected), but the first thing he did was give Sherlock a hug like he hasn't done in almost thirty years.  
  
And to his delight, Sherlock responded with one of his own.  
  
"I'm glad, Mycroft, that you were so well protected that Moriarty never thought to send one your way." Sherlock said, relief uncharacteristically flooding his voice. None of the usual spite and veiled venom that Sherlock had reserved for him. "And I'm glad that we don't have a typical sibling relationship, or else I'd have to worry about you too."  
  
That was last Mycroft heard on the matter, because his brother quickly slipped his mask on after that. Sherlock was never good with such displays, and to be completely honest, neither was he.  
  
It was refreshing, anyway.  
  
His brother may not show his emotions often, but when he did, he oozed sincerity and warmth that, though uncharacteristic, showed that he was being true and real.  
  
And he actually knew what to say this time, even if he probably didn’t realise he was doing it.  
  
Mycroft stepped back, and let his brother in. “We have much to discuss, Sherlock.” Was his reply, careful not to mention nor show any of the relief and joy that was rolling underneath the carefully constructed mask.  
  
His younger brother was still alive, thank every deity in existence.  
  
“I know, Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, looking around him to see if anyone noticed the tall, now-ginger man in trainers, jeans, and a hoodie. He stepped in, and breathed easy once inside. He looked like he needed sleep, but Mycroft knew better than to tell Sherlock the obvious. “We have much to plan, as well.”  
  
Mycroft nodded, and they made their way into the kitchen. “Mycroft, I’m going to eat that cake you always keep at the bottom of your fridge. I haven’t eaten in days, and though the body is merely transport, it needs fuel.” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. “Besides, you don’t need more food. You’re getting… bigger.”  
  
He didn’t mind the stab at his weight, although it was getting a bit old. For a moment there, all was right with the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by something from tumblr, I think. Or another fanfic. Gosh, I don't remember. Written... maybe a month ago? Thanks for reading! Usual disclaimers and acknowledgments apply.


End file.
